


For His Wallet

by opalescentgold



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond (Movies)
Genre: Christmas Fluff, F/M, Fluff and Crack, M/M, Secret Santa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-21
Updated: 2016-12-21
Packaged: 2018-09-10 19:35:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8934184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/opalescentgold/pseuds/opalescentgold
Summary: Bill doesn't know what he's done to deserve this. It's all Moneypenny's fault anyways. Christ, who has this much money?





	

**Author's Note:**

> I procrastinated cheerfully on this and then wrote it all in three hours the night before it was due. Gosh, it's school all over again. 
> 
> Betaed by the lovely [Linorien](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Linorien/pseuds/Linorien) and the wonderful [Castillion](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Castillon02) .

Bill is familiar with regret. It’s been his closest companion throughout the years, alongside his wife, his car, and his beer. He’s long since assumed it’s part and parcel of being a member of MI6 and has grown used to coping with some truly shitty beer and the occasional golf night.

Still. There’s a certain amount of regret a sole decision has the right to produce. Any more and Bill’s promised himself solemnly to take a second look at his life choices. Maybe find out where he went wrong. Look into being a banker or something.

He never does, of course, but it’s the thought that counts. Or so every agent claims at least once during their career, generally after fucking up a small nation with excessive explosions. 006 and 007 are the absolute worst about this.

Which brings him to the post-it he’s been staring at for the past three minutes.

Most of the time, his regret-filled decisions have the decency to be decisions he actually makes himself. This time, however…

“Damn it, Moneypenny,” Bill mutters, unlocking the bottom left drawer with a groan and pulling out a bottle of beer. It’s bloody unprofessional, but he’s off-hours and there’s no one around anyway. “I knew this was a bad idea.”

Taking a long, fortifying gulp, he looks over the list once more and grimaces.

He hates to so much as think it, but it’s probably a good thing he got Bond. Heaven knows what would happen if one of the boffins in Q-Branch had the misfortune to land 007; they’d probably build a grenade launcher just to save their bank account the injury.

Macallan scotch, indeed.

* * *

Laura opens the door and says, “You’ve been drinking.”

“It’s been that sort of day,” Bill says, weary. “May I come in, dear?”

She rolls her eyes fondly and steps back. Their house is quiet and devoid of girlish giggling, but he can hear the faint strains of Edith Piaf playing from the living room. His legs aren’t being besieged by too much momentum and thin arms, so he asks, “The girls?”

“Asleep. You know it’s far past their bedtime.” Laura takes his jacket and hangs it up before leading him to their dining room with a hand on his back. “I do enforce the rules every once in a while, you know.”

More often than not, their daughters stay up late watching television and giving excuses like “we’re waiting for Daddy!” but Bill knows better than to mention this. Laura’s kept dinner warm in the oven, and she takes out the spaghetti bolognese with mitts on.

“Sit,” comes the order. Bill, well used to this routine, obligingly collapses on a chair and smiles in gratitude at the glass of wine that’s promptly poured for him.

“You’re amazing, Laura,” he says solemnly, throwing aside dignity in favour of shoving pasta into his mouth with the fork on the table he suspects was his daughter’s. Sascha hasn’t quite gotten the concept of dirty silverware in the sink, but Laura insists that she’s getting there.

His wife snorts, perfectly unladylike, and busies herself with doing the dishes. “Flattery will get you nowhere,” she tells him, but there’s that sunshine smile in her voice, the one that Bill fell in love with, and he smiles, too.

They dwell in comfortable silence through one Edith Piaf song while Bill finishes off the spaghetti and Laura gets all the plates in the dishwasher. Then, by quiet consensus, after a quick trip to the living room to turn off the lights and music, they head upstairs for bed.

“So, what was the disaster this time?” Laura, evil woman that she is, waits until they’re cuddling in bed to ask cheerfully. She adds, with an adorable wrinkle of her nose, “And the cheap beer, too.”

Bill lets that one pass. “Bond,” he says grimly.

He can feel her smile against his neck. “James?” she says, all pure, sweet, false innocence. “But he was such a charming young man when he came in for tea that one time.”

“Laura, you shot him.”

She giggles. “He deserved it, breaking into our house like that. How was I to know he was your coworker instead of our enemy? I had to protect our girls.”

“And you did that beautifully,” he reassures her, pressing a kiss to her temple. “Even better, Bond’s never broken in again. I think he’s afraid of you.”

“Well, that’s just silly. He’s a secret agent with a license to kill, and I’m just a librarian with rusty training. Without the element of surprise, he’d certainly win,” Laura says, matter-of-fact about it.

Bill shakes his head slightly but doesn’t bother arguing. For all that she’s former CIA, Laura’s always been 100% realistic. “You know how we’re doing a Secret Santa at Moneypenny’s behest?”

“Of course. You were complaining about how it was so sudden and the logistics were hell to sort out…” She trails off, and he knows she’s connected the dots when she starts burying her laughter in his skin. “Oh my God, you got _James_?”

“Don’t laugh,” he groans, squeezing his eyes shut. “His list is ridiculous. I’m going to bankrupt us.”

Laura pulls back enough to pet his cheek. “Don’t worry, darling,” she says, brown eyes dancing. “I can be the breadwinner of this household. You look after the girls.”

* * *

Bill goes to Q first, because that’s the first thing on the list and seems the most plausible. Q-Branch is bustling with activity as always, boffins scuttling this way and that, complex code flying down screens and questionable experiments being conducted in the dark corners.   

Q’s typing away in the center of the chaos, but he notices Bill soon enough. “Tanner,” he greets, adjusting his glasses absently. “Is something the matter?”

“No, no. There’s just a bit of a...personal matter I’d like to discuss with you,” Bill says delicately, keeping his face desperately straight.

Q blinks at him with wide green eyes, every centimetre the darling of MI6, with the exception of Medical and Psych. Bill doesn’t blame him; while the agents’ lives are splattered over the screens of Q-Branch, the executives rarely bring their personal shit to work.

After work, at the nearest pub, is a very different story, as Moneypenny’s many different sources of blackmail can testify. Possibly at court.

Q recovers quickly with a smile and the click of his laptop being shut. “Of course. We can talk in my office.”

“Whatever you’re thinking, it’s not as bad,” Bill promises as Q leads the way.

“I don’t believe that for a second.”

Once they’re in the very-dusty, seldom-used office, and Q’s shut the door behind them, Bill blurts out, “How’s the Aston Martin?”

Q looks at him like he’s crazy. “The Aston Martin…? 007’s poor, mistreated car?”

“Yes. It’s very important that I know.” Bill learned how to bullshit from the Double-Ohs, arguably the very best at the fine art.

“In pieces,” Q says, very slowly. “007 crashed it into five trees and then into a river. We’re lucky we managed to salvage what we have.”

Bill’s shoulders droop. It was a long shot, but damn it, it was the best one he had. “How long will it take to repair it?”

“Months. At least.” Q narrows his eyes. “Why are you asking about the Aston Martin? Did 007 put you up to this? He doesn’t have another mission for two weeks.”

Bill stares at Q helplessly.

“...it’s the Secret Santa, isn’t it?” Q isn’t a genius for nothing.

“His list is insanity incarnate, Q.”

Q pats him on the shoulder but has no words of comfort. Presumably, none exist for this situation.

* * *

Bill knows that Bond knows that MI6 weapons are not to be given out as gifts. They also both know that M will look askance if Bill actually gifts Bond with a personal weapon, and there might be a scheduled Psych appointment asking him what he’s doing by encouraging 007’s messes.

So that leaves the scotch and the suit. His wallet isn’t going to survive.

Moneypenny swings by after work to invite him to a night at the pub. Bill thinks that he might as well mourn his wallet with a good night of drinking so he accepts.

Two hours later, he’s slurring out all his troubles. “Laura’s never going to forgive me for this.”

“What are you talking about?” Moneypenny looks irritatingly put-together - _field agents -_ but her heavy-lidded eyes give her away. She’s just as smashed as he is. “You two are sickeningly sweet together.”

“Bond’s going to wipe out our bank accounts. We’ll have to live on the streets. Even the greatest of loves wouldn’t survive that.” Bill takes another swig to mourn his soon-to-be-failing marriage.

Moneypenny eyes him like he’s an idiot. “Don’t be an idiot,” she says. “Give him one date with Q, and you’ll make his upcoming _year._ And for that matter, you’ll make mine. Their pining was cute, but now it just makes me want to stab someone.”

Bill stares at her. “Moneypenny, you are a genius,” he breathes in awe.

She sniffs and tosses her hair. “Of course I am. Finish your drink. I promised Laura I wouldn’t leave you unconscious in the dumpster.”

* * *

Bill places two tickets to the famous art exhibition in Kensington Garden that’s set to open on New Years in an ordinary box and has it gift-wrapped. He finds Bond predictably lurking in Q-Branch the day before Christmas Eve and dumps it unceremoniously in his hands.  

“Merry Christmas, 007,” he says and then goes back to his office to get the paperwork finished. He wants no interruptions on his short and brief break; Laura might actually kill him this time.

* * *

Two weeks into January, Bill gets to work only to find a case of good beer in his office. After a second of pause and a lookover of the security cameras, which show nothing but black, he smiles and starts to restock his drawer.

The date went well, it seems.

**Author's Note:**

> More 00Q obession [here](https://opalescentgold.tumblr.com/).
> 
> Kudos and comments would be lovely. ^.^


End file.
